Those Days Are Gone
by smalld1171
Summary: Short one-shot set in Season 7. Certain things used to be fun. Now? Not so much.


**Those Days Are Gone**

_A/N: Hi. Me again. Another stressful day equals another short one-shot written in about fifteen minutes. It probably isn't pretty but it was what flew into my head to take me away for a moment from real life. To any who read, thank you._

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><p>He stands up and wavers for a moment, the rush of alcohol swishing its way from his body straight into his head. He steadies himself and motions to the other man that it's his turn.<p>

He's silent as he backs away, no snarky remarks or smile to accompany the victory of sinking four shots in a row.

Angry eyes meet his as the man steps towards the plate, gripping the pool cue so tight he's surprised it doesn't split in two.

He leans against his stool and takes a swig of his drink. He waits, watches and takes another, draining the contents without even realizing he had.

This used to be fun. There used to be a certain rush when they would relieve some hothead of their money by kicking their ass at pool. They would put the act on; a couple of drunk brothers looking for a good time and willing to put their money where their mouths are.

And they would walk out with a buzz and a pocket full of cash.

Not too much of an act to put on at this particular moment. He's drunk and he knows it. He glances to where his brother eyes him from the bar and shakes his now empty bottle at him, his message clear. Disappointment streaks across Sam's face before he turns to get his obviously loaded brother another shot of pain relief.

Even pissed he is kicking this guy's ass. He should get some satisfaction in that fact, but doesn't. Not anymore.

Those days are long gone. He is actually trying to count the bills that lay on the side of the table, wondering how much longer he has to stay here dealing with this yahoo before he can call it a night, leave this shithole and crawl into bed.

Huh. Bed. Can't get to that point without enough cash to stay at the latest flea-infested motel they spotted on their way in, driving along in some piss poor excuse for a car. He sighs deeply.

No Impala.

No Singer Salvage.

No home.

Those days are gone.

His brother saunters over and as he grabs the bottle from him he can see the concern that filters through his younger sibling's features. He musters up the best smile he can and mumbles a thanks, followed by an 'almost done'.

His brother joins him to lean against the wall, his own exhaustion clearly defined on his face.

He tries not to let his relief show as Mr. Yahoo sinks the eight ball, unintentionally, and lets out a string of expletives that can rival his own. The man stalks over and he cringes at what he knows he's gonna say.

"One more game."

He shakes his head slowly as he once again ponders the now empty bottle in his grip.

"Nah man, I think I'm good for tonight. Thanks for the games."

He looks to his brother then and nods.

"Let's get out of here Sam."

He travels to the edge of the table and lifts up the wad of cash, bristling as he feels a firm grip on his shoulder. He is so not in the mood for this shit.

He turns and sees that the man is now seething, obviously not used to being beaten or to being told no.

"I said one more game."

He runs a hand over his face and shakes his head slightly as he sees his brother rise to his full height and start to make his way over. This is his fight, no need to get Sam involved.

"Look, I'm tired, I'm pissed and I'm calling it a night. Just let it go alright?"

Not listening. Damn it. He takes a step back to assess what this guy intends to do and it doesn't take long. His reflexes may be slightly impaired by alcohol but he still has enough brain power to see this asshole quickly move to grip his pool cue like a damn bat and get ready to let 'er rip.

His adrenaline is pulsating and he shifts to a defensive stance on instinct. He won't back down and he sure as hell won't be intimidated by some douchebag loser who has obviously gone through life with his only altercations having occurred in some skeevy bar in some dead end town.

He stands there, weary but still ready for a fight that never comes. Just as dumbass starts to swing, he is grabbed from behind by his behemoth brother and the pool cue comes up to press against the idiot's throat.

He can hear his brother talk low and rough to the man who suddenly finds himself in an outnumbered, out gunned position.

"My brother said he's done so I suggest you walk away. And just an FYI, I am actually the more level headed one so I am doing you a favour; you were just about to piss him off."

He gives the man his best glare, hoping it conveys the same threat in the patterns on his face as the words that were just voiced by his brother. The dude nods and his brother lets him go, giving him a not so friendly shove to emphasize his point.

Sam stalks over to where he stands and grabs him by the shoulder. "Let's go Dean."

He lets his brother lead him out of the gaze of onlookers towards the door and into the coolness of the night. They stop at the driver's side of the car and Sam's hand reaches out. Without a second thought he drops the keys to the shitmobile into the palm of his brother's hand and trudges around to the passenger side.

No smartass comments.

No argument or banter back and forth about how he's fine.

No mention about how Sam should lighten up and stop being such a buzzkill.

That would take too much energy and he isn't sure he could even pull it off.

Those days are gone.

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><p><strong>The End. Thanks for stopping by.<strong>


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